


Calculated to Make You Break

by Calacious



Category: The Expendables (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:30:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lee knows that there's nothing sexual about it; that it's a calculated move, one meant to make him break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calculated to Make You Break

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gadhar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gadhar/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and am not making any profit, monetary or otherwise, through the writing of this.
> 
> My first Expendables fic, took me months to work up the nerve to post this...still not sure about it.
> 
> **Warnings:** Might be triggering. Some errors in grammar, and made up spellings in places.

Lee knows that this particular abuse of his body is calculated to make him break. That there is nothing even remotely 'sexual' about it, no matter who gets off on it, or the tiny sounds of pleasure that are made by his abusers when they rape him.

The things they say that echo in his head long after they're finished and he's lying on the dirty mattress tucked in a corner of the room - _You like this, don't you? Always figured you for a cocksucker. Take it. Yeah. That's it. So fucking tight, baby. Gonna fuck you like an animal. Know you like it. Pretty boy. C'mon, sugar. So damn beautiful._

It doesn't happen every day, and Lee's not sure if that's a good thing or not. Isn't sure what it means that that particular abuse isn't applied on a daily basis like all of the others are.

Beatings occur like clockwork, one in the morning as a wake up call, and the other just before lunch. They aren't long, drawn out beatings, just enough to remind him of where he is and who is in control.

As if he could forget.

_C'mon, stop being such a tease. You know you want it._

Torture - mental or otherwise - is a strictly evening affair, just before dinner and lights out. That only happens every third or fourth day, as far as Lee can tell, and rarely leads to any coherent conversation on his part as he typically loses consciousness at some point during the torture session, or is left a breathless, jibbering mess.

Lee doesn't have any of the answers they're looking for. Their questions don't make sense. They've taken the wrong person, and, given that the torture's still occurring, Lee thinks that they don't care that he's not whoever the fuck it is that they thought he was when they first took him.

And, even if he _could_ talk, and was willing to, he wouldn't. Lee's had practice at this kind of thing. Knows how to handle torture without giving anything important away. But this doesn't make sense, and not even knowing that sometimes this line of business doesn't make sense, doesn't help.

He's lost. Floundering, and that doesn't sit well with him.

_You know you want it. Fuck, you were born wanting it weren't you. Bet your own daddy fucked you._

There seems to be no rhyme or reason as to when the rapes occur. Least not any that Lee can fathom. They don't fit into the time schedule that he's set up in his head.

The first rape had occurred shortly after a failed torture session, and Lee estimated that had been about two, maybe three weeks ago, that it had occurred because the torture session hadn't gotten the results that were wanted. It was a rape borne out of pure frustration and the need to regain control over the situation - over Lee.

He'd laughed at the torture. Spitting out blood at the men who'd hurt him. Maybe that had been the trigger. Lee hasn't laughed since then, might never laugh again.

He'd fought, heart pounding so hard that he'd been certain it was going to pound its way out of his chest. It hadn't, but that had offered him little by the way of consolation when he'd been left alone in his dark cell after the attack, bleeding from a place no man should ever bleed from, and feeling like a failure, like he'd been gutted from the inside out.

_C'mon, don't fight it. You know you want it. I've seen the looks you've been giving me._

It had hurt in a way that nothing had ever hurt Lee before. Touched parts of him that didn't bear thinking about after the fact.

It had been ugly and brutal and every bit as demeaning as he'd imagined such an act to be. And the overall sense of violation hasn't left him at all. If anything, it's grown as time's passed, and his captors treat him as though nothing's happened.

They carry on with the regularly timed beatings, feed him, and torture him at regular are no whispered taunts, no lingering touches. Nothing but haunting memories - ghost hands pawing at him, words, dirty with hints of truth that he's buried deep within himself.

He tries to sleep, but can't. When he passes out from exhaustion there are no dreams. He comes to, gasping for air, grasping at emptiness, pushing away hands that aren't there.

_This what you want? Why you refused to answer our questions? You wanted to be fucked, all you had to do was ask, baby._

The second rape occurs in lieu of his regularly scheduled torture session, and Lee estimates that it had taken place over six days ago now. Though he'd fought the indignity with every ounce of strength and self-preservation that he had left in him after being held captive for so long, he'd still been raped.

And, to think, at the time, he'd been looking forward to his captors' version of electroshock therapy. Instead, he'd gotten a glorified stick shoved up his ass, and bruises on his thighs that matched the thick sausage fingers of one of the nameless, faceless guards who'd violated him. No dinner that night either. One would think that he was a cheap date.

At least his sense of sarcasm has remained intact. That has to mean something, right?

_Whore. Bet you put out for all of the guys on your team. They fuck you like this?_

The third rape occurred less than a day ago, and had been the most brutal attack yet. Lee's still recovering from it, lying on his side, knees drawn up to his chest, the thin, ratty mattress that he'd been afforded in his captivity doing nothing to keep the cold from seeping through the concrete floor, or springs from digging into his badly bruised hips and thighs.

He aches everywhere. Feels hopeless. Shame.

He knows that he fucking deserves it, because...he wasn't strong enough to fight them off, and a real man would be. Someone like Barney, or Tool. Fuck, even Galgo would've been able to stop it from happening.

_Fucking pussy. You brought this on yourself._

Lee knows that it's going to happen again. Soon. That he won't be able to stop it, because he's too weak. A fucking pansy. He's failed as a man. And once he's rescued - he has no doubt that he _will_ be rescued - they haven't taken that from him - no one will want to be near him, because of this. Because of what he's allowed to happen to him.

They won't want him to touch them, won't want to touch him. Won't be able to look him in the eye. Hell, he'll never be able to look himself in the eye again.

When the guards come for him again, Lee wishes for a simple beating, or the thick chains that mean he'll be hung from the bars in the ceiling and used as a human punching bag, or that they'll clip spark plugs to him and electricity will snake its way through his body, short circuit his brain, leave the scent of burnt flesh and hair lingering in the air for hours that bleed into days.

Hell, he'd even welcome that snake they'd shoved in his face once. No venom, but the fucker's teeth had been razor sharp and it had held onto his face for what had seemed like forever and had taken a chunk of his flesh when it'd been ripped off of him.

He'll take anything but what he knows, in his gut, is really going to happen. He can practically smell the scent of arousal in the air, wonders who the fuck gets off on this kind of thing, doesn't want to know. He's shaking. Doesn't want to, but it's hard not to when he knows what's going to happen to him, even if he does manage to fight back - rapes number four, five and six, if he isn't mistaken - a whole gang of them this time - if three men, oily, smug looks on their faces, could be considered a gang.

Of course, maybe Barney and Gunnar will come to Lee's rescue right now, guns blazing, bombs rocking the chambers of his home away from home, blowing it to bits. Lee won't miss any of this when that happens.

Won't miss the daily dose of drugs that keep him uncoordinated and subdued, administered to him through his rations of water. He won't miss the companionable rats that kept him company at night, or, anything about his prison, really.

There isn't a damn thing about this hellhole that Lee will miss if Barney and the others walk through that door right now and get to him before the guards do.

If wishes were horses and all that rot... Lee wouldn't be struggling to press his back up against the wall of his small prison cell, wouldn't be shoving pudgy grasping hands away in a futile effort to stop them from getting what they'll get anyway. Wouldn't be begging, in a voice so far removed from his own that he doesn't even recognize it, for the inevitable not to happen.

"Please, don't."

"No, no, no. Stop."

_Shut the fuck up. You've got no one else to blame for this, but yourself._

No, if wishes were horses, Lee would jump on one and get the fuck out of this place, leave his would-be rapists and their meaty paws behind. He'd be riding a rainbow out of this godforsaken place instead of the thick, hardness that's being forced inside of him, tearing him apart.

If Barney doesn't kill the motherfuckers, Lee will, just as soon as he's freed from the drugs that make it difficult for him to think coherently, let alone put up a competent fight against what's happening to him.

_"Not your fault, Lee."_ He can hear Barney's voice, and it's like the man's right there, speaking the words against his ear. Calming him. Like maybe he's not dreaming, and this is the rescue that he's been waiting for. That guard number two isn't taking his turn, using Lee's ass like he'd use a whore.

" _You couldn't have stopped it from happening. None of us could have."_ The ghost of Barney's voice trails off, leaving him with the empty sound of Lee's soundless begging, guttural grunts, fetid breath that smells like whiskey and smoked sausage.

It's a simple truth, that none of this is his fault (no matter what the guard's say, the ones not fucking him, knelt on either side of him, taunting, whispering in his ear) but it's hard to believe as he's being humiliated for the fifth time, stripped of all dignity. There is no pride. Nothing but shame, and guilt, and the desire to disappear.

He tries to keep quiet, tries to make his body remain still and unresponsive, because it hurts and he doesn't want this, and no way is he ever going to have sex with anyone _ever_ again. But he isn't quiet, and the men are laughing, taunting him, twisting his begging into something else beyond permission.

"Don't worry, sugar," one of them says, lips pressed to the back of Lee's neck as he pulls out of him with a sound that makes Lee feel sick. "We'll be back to take care of you tomorrow." He pats Lee on the ass, making him flinch, tugs the thin scrub like clothing that Lee's been given to wear back up over his hips, and then leaves.

Laughter echoes in the room long after the men have left him; they slap each other on the back, and guffaw, share tawdry stories about their family, and sexual conquests from the past, compare them to Lee.

Lee listens to the sound of their footfalls, the click clack of boots on concrete, waits until they dwindle down to almost nothing before he curls onto his side, and closes his eyes.

Lee can't stop shaking, can't stop the tears from coming, can't stop the memory of sounds, whispered taunts, touch, and he curls himself up into as small of a ball as he can, wishing that he could return to his mother's womb, as unwelcome as it had been the first time around. Anything would be better than this.

The next time the door to his cell opens, Lee doesn't move. He's not sleeping. Hasn't slept properly for days, weeks, years really. They hadn't returned to give him food, or drugs after they'd...after they'd left him.

He's breathing. Eyes open, fixed on a stain on the mattress. It's an old stain. Not from him, but from some other poor sap who'd probably been subjected to the same kind of treatment that he's been.

It looks like blood, might be something else. It's almost black, and oddly shaped, like some kind of misshapen butterfly. A Rorschach symbol. Lee was good at those. Could fool psychiatrists like nobody's business.

Their hands are rough and cold.

_Told you we'd be back, sugar._

Lee can't hold the whimper back, can't stop the tremors that make his teeth clash, make him bite his tongue. He tastes blood, and he doesn't want to be here anymore, so he slips away, follows the black splotch into another time, another place, the taste of beer, and the warmth of lips on his, a willing body beneath his, the feel of Barney's hand on his back, an anchor of safety, security, and something unquantifiable, like love. Thoughts swirl through his mind and combine together in a way that doesn't make sense.

"Lee," the voice is inside his ear, but he's not wearing an earpiece. It's a voice he hasn't heard in a long time. He doesn't trust it, moves away from it.

"Christmas."

The hands are more persistent, and Lee pulls away from them, shudders as he tries to curl further into himself. It doesn't work, and there are lips on his ear now, a voice in his head, and he wants to pull back into the safety of the black unwinged butterfly stain on the ugly mattress, but he can't, because whoever is pulling at him won't let him, and he doesn't want _it_ to happen again. Not so soon after the last time.

Never again.

"Fuck, c'mon, Christmas, we don't got time for this shit," the words hold no heat, though there's an urgency to them, and Lee thinks it sounds like Barney's voice, but that's not possible. Not possible when he's falling apart at the seams, and the man was too fucking late to keep it from happening in the first place.

"Just pick him up," another voice says. It's garbled. Harsh. Lee can't make out who it is. Can feel no sympathy. "Looks like he weighs next to nothing. Fuck."

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ The word rings over and over again in Lee's mind, making him dizzy with laughter, because he's fucked. He's been fucked. And he doesn't think he'll ever fuck, or give a fuck again.

"Shit, what the fuck did the bastards do to you?"

The question's rhetorical, but Lee answers it anyway, voice raw, barely there. It's a broken whisper that no one hears, that maybe never even leaves his mouth, and the arms that pick him up are good, strong arms. Arms that could break him. Might if they're the arms of the enemy, because Lee's not yet convinced that this isn't some kind of hallucination. That he's not about to be beaten, or worse, raped, again.

This event doesn't fit the timeline that he's established in his mind, though. It's an aberration that he can't reconcile with the internal clockwork that he's set up. He's never really had the need for an alarm clock. Might buy one when he gets back, because his internal rhythm's all fucked up with beatings, torture, rape, and he thinks that maybe waking up to the sound of music would be a better alternative.

Lee's head is swimming, and the arms holding him are blocks of cement, though they bleed beneath his nails, and there's the sound of whispered cursing, begging him to stop, but Lee doesn't want to stop. Not when they never stopped. Never listened to his cries for mercy.

It's the familiar tattoo, the hard chest, the thumping heart that finally, finally breaks through to Lee and causes him to realize that this is not a dream, that Barney and Gunnar and Caesar are really there, really taking him home.

He can't see. Doesn't want, or need, to. In this case seeing isn't believing. Barney's scent - gunpowder, sweat and a hint of spicy aftershave - makes Lee dizzy with relief.

He closes his eyes, digs his fingers into warm flesh that's strong enough to take a beating and still come up swinging. Flesh that is strong enough to take, but also to give, and that's what Lee clings to, because, even though he wants to, he can't walk out on his own two feet.

"Sh, it's okay." Barney's voice is a soft rumble, his heartbeat steady against Lee's ear, lulling him into a sense of safety. If his nerves weren't strung so taut, Lee might be able to fall asleep. The thought terrifies him, as does the way that Barney's voice catches when he says, "I've got you brother. Ain't no one's gonna hurt you now."

He knows it's true, because Barney doesn't lie, not about something important like this. Lee wants to believe it, but, even with Barney holding him, he can still feel the hands of his captors. Pushing, groping, touching. Can still hear their taunts. Can feel them moving inside of him. Can feel the sticky-slick trickle of blood and sweat and come.

"Fuckers are dead," Barney says, though Lee hasn't asked. Can't make his voice work. Can't make anything work. "All of them."

"Good," Lee finally manages to work the word past numb lips. It sounds like he's choking. He feels like he's drowning.

When Barney shifts, moving to lay Lee down on a cot in the plane, Lee clings to him. Doesn't want to let go, because he knows that once he does, out of that hellhole or not, he'll be right back on that smelly, dingy mattress, loose spring digging into his side.

It makes him feel weak. Needy. But Barney doesn't say anything. Takes a seat in the back of the plane, and just holds Lee as though there's nothing wrong with it. Presses a kiss to Lee's forehead, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Runs his fingers through Lee's hair, whispers words that combat the sick words stuck on repeat in Lee's mind.

"They're dead," Barney says when Lee gasps out something, the words (some sort of plea, a whimper) not even registering in his own mind though they make it past his cracked lips, leave some stricken look on Barney's face, make Barney's fingers dig into Lee's hair like some kind of promise. An anchor in the storm of Lee's fucked up life.

Lee must fall asleep at some point in time, fingers disentangled from Barney's shirt, his skin, because he wakes, lungs straining to drag in air, eyes scanning the room frantically, fingers scrabbling at sheets, nose stinging with the astringent scent of something antiseptic. He's panicked, can't catch his breath, and the only thing that keeps Lee from falling off the edge of the hospital bed is Barney's hand reaching for his, pulling Lee into some kind of half hug that, instead of terrifying, comforts him when, in all likelihood, it shouldn't. Not after what he's been through.

He knows, in some detached part of himself that is somehow, even in the midst of his panic attack, cataloguing all of this, telling him that his skin should crawl at another man's touch, that he should want to push Barney away, not seek comfort from him. It's as though there's some part of himself that's outside of his own body, looking down on everything that's happening. Telling himself that he should be screaming, pushing Barney away, not pulling him closer, sobbing against the other man's chest. It's unnerving, and he just wants to have some fucking control over his life.

"It's okay, Christmas," Barney says, lips brushing across Lee's left ear. "I've got you. You're safe. Home. It's over."

But it isn't over. Won't be for a long, long time, because, even after he's given a clean bill of health, and let go from the hospital (STD, HIV tests in a couple month's time) there are nightmares that follow him all the way to where he finds some semblance of life in returning, not to his own home, but Barney's.

At first it's for practicality. A suicide watch that doesn't make Lee's skin itch, because of the amount of eyes on him.

The guys mean well. They never mention what happened to Lee. Never talk behind his back.

They don't touch him as easily as they used to either. Their eyes skitter over him, like they're afraid that looking at him is going to set off a flashback, send Lee into a corner, make him cower and beg at ghosts.

Later, it's because Barney is the only one not afraid to look at him. Not afraid to touch, or hold, or let Lee cling to him like some kind of fucking security blanket. He's not afraid of the flashbacks. Of Lee's fists, or the knife he sometimes brandishes on himself, on Barney.

And when they kiss, fingers twined in hair, digging into sharp hip bones, lips warm and pliant, Lee feels like maybe the world isn't going to end. That he's not flying apart at the seams. That Barney's got a hold of him and isn't going to let go. Won't let Lee fall into some dark, endless abyss filled with broken phrases, laughter, whiskey tainted breath, and grabby hands that belong to faceless monsters.

When they kiss, when Barney holds him, whispering promises until Lee falls asleep, Lee feels like maybe he's on his way to becoming a whole person again. Like maybe, even before what had happened to him, he was missing a key part of himself, and that, even though it doesn't make sense, and he thinks-knows Barney would be better off without him, Barney is the other half of himself that he's been missing all along. Because, even before what happened, Lee knows that he wasn't whole.

When they kiss, Lee forgets the words, the hands, the nightmares that claw at his throat, even during the day when he's trying to hold a conversation with one of the guys. He gets caught up in the feel of Barney's tongue, the way the man's lips move against his own, the little needy sounds that Barney makes that give Lee the illusion of control, the way that Barney traces the scar on Lee's cheek with his thumb, makes him shiver, molds their bodies together until Lee is no longer sure how to tell the differences between them.

"I've got you, brother," Barney says, jarring Lee from his thoughts.

His lips linger over a burn mark on Lee's chest, fingers map out a set of scars, older than his captivity, older than the time he's been working with Barney.

Lee's breath hitches, and Barney looks up at him from his position, half-sprawled over Lee, head cushioned by Lee's chest, dark eyes glimmering with something that Lee isn't ready to define yet. May never be ready to define.

Barney has the patience of a saint to put up with him, and Lee smiles down at him, toes curling when Barney presses his lips to the scar in a tender kiss. Lee doesn't even remember getting that one, has no story to go with it. Thinks he might've passed out and the men had just continued torturing him in spite. Knows, at least thinks he does, that it occurred before the first rape.

"C'mere," Lee says, voice husky.

Something inside him stirs when Barney slides up, body pressing against his, skin on skin, except for where they're clothed. Lee never sleeps naked anymore, and, in deference to Lee's needs, Barney wears boxers and sometimes sweats to bed.

Smiling, Lee threads his fingers through Barney's close-cropped hair, closes his eyes, and loses himself, the wanderings of his mind, in a kiss that steals his breath, and makes him want more.

His captors' actions had been designed to break him, and, in a way, they had, but not for good. He's starting to mend, knows that he's not alone, and that, one day, he will no longer be broken.

_Someday_ , he promises himself that there will be more. Promises Barney. But for now, he's content with this - Barney sprawled out on top of him, kissing him whole again.


End file.
